I am quiet too often like the empty hallways, humming a song already forgotten with a tilting toe towards the sun a sigh: pink fingers dipped in pain a sigh: pink fingers dipped in hallucination there is a staircase now falling beneath my parting head half towards left, half towards right days whistling on sea waves about my country in flames, about my city in illusions
watching a cloud things fall under the feet now a complete loss of sense tiny leaflets fluttering
green songs that reflect nothing. the survival becomes a pungent smell often with absent glares and a blue sea that is a part of my dream.
My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-
I know of a lady in white with a mouth full of promises, spreading a nocturnal path of flowers, like a longed kiss above the eye, a lady that slips in my chest, within the small rim of my fist, a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist. a lady with a potato peel, with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table, entangled like dust in her bun, mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder, a moment of purple sanity, a lady in white that lives in a suburban city, with marigolds just in her eyes. —————————————————————
Find my published collection Crimson Skins worldwide.
I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.
I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.
Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.
You won’t be disappointed.
You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.
I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.
I announce I am rather happy
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic
But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.
Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.